


soft hands

by Caivallon



Series: warm hands [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Christmas Smut, M/M, Slight hurt and comfort, ballet dancer patrick, but mostly sweet fluff, hotel heir jon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 12:37:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13857930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caivallon/pseuds/Caivallon
Summary: “It’s been three weeks,” he says (because he refuses to beg Jon to touch him again).It works. It always works. And like always it makes him feel like shit. It’s not Jon’s fault; it’s not like he wouldn’t have done anything in his power to prevent it.“It’s been three weeks,” he repeats—without the accusation, without anger. Just longing.“Almost four. Twenty-six days.” Jon whispers it, fingers in Patrick’s hair, lips against his ear, chest against his. Just five little words, but they are enough. They are the apology Jon was not supposed to make, confirmation of yearning, of a desire that cannot be fulfilled with FaceTiming and phone sex.





	soft hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heidii19](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heidii19/gifts), [tatou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tatou/gifts).



> This is supposed to be a Christmas story… yes, I said that before and one time I will actually manage to post a Christmas story on _Christmas_ , hopefully. Also this is the sequel to my story [ **soiled hands** ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10977486/chapters/24443910), because I still like that verse a lot and after spending two amazing days in a snowy Quebec City I just _had to_ write it.  
>  It’s maybe not necessary to have read the first part, but I guess it would be better to understand the dynamics and the development that happened since the first part.  
> My beta was again the awesome, amazing _Queen of Pining_ [ **Jenny** ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Linsky/pseuds/Linsky) whom I could persuade once more to deal with my countless mistakes. If there are still some left, it’s all my fault because she is awesome and a great teacher when it comes to dashes, em dashes and other punctuations. Thank you for the lovely talks about Bennguin, 1988 and writing in general. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I did writing it.

**Soft hands**

 

The cold hits him like a fist as soon as he steps out the door and even though he expected it, prepared himself mentally, it’s still a shock. Always is. 

He curses silently. Then out loud. Not that there is anyone around to hear him, but still. It feels good to express his disdain and unwillingness to be here. His annoyance about having to struggle with the fly of this ~~insanely expensive~~ parka with freezing hands. His disbelief about himself; that he’s actually here, _willingly_. His amusement at the fact that he’s really doing this.

Finally he manages to pull the zipper up, all the way to his throat so that he feels as if he’s almost choking with the scarf that he’s already wearing. Then he tugs his beanie lower, folds up the ridiculous fur-brimmed hood, slides his bare hands into the pockets and braces himself for the impact. Steps out of the and into the snow storm. 

But even though he is prepared, it is like walking against a wall of elements: the strong wind tears at his body, making him stumble until he manages to regain his balance and move forwards. Tiny ice crystals are hitting his face, biting into his skin sharp and merciless like flakes of metal. He turns left, turns his back to the wind and plods through four inches of fresh snow on the sidewalk. The small path the doorman had just cleared when Patrick came back from grocery shopping a couple of hours ago is already covered.

It’s cold. Colder than he thought could ever be possible, being used to Chicago winters and having once been used to Buffalo winters. It’s cold and he should not be out. No one should. Which is probably the reason why everyone except him is safe and cozy inside the stony row houses with the colorful framed windows. Yellow lights warm and inviting, red and green decorations making it impossible to ignore that it’s Christmas. 

Or was, he corrects himself. Because technically it’s already Boxing Day—the bells of nearby Notre-Dame-Des-Victoires announced it about half an hour ago. 

It’s all very quiet, no sound of cars, no honking of ferries, no barking of dogs or laughter of drunk tourists; nothing but the crunching of snow underneath his boots, his harsh breathing and the steady beat of his heartbeat in his ears when the street rises slowly. It would be peaceful and beautiful if it weren’t for the icy wind howling in the narrow streets, tearing at his scarf, hood and hair, or the cold that is so intense that he can feel the inside of his nose freezing or the simple fact that he is too pissed to focus and enjoy this. 

Shoving his hands deeper he turns right, eyes the steep climb, the towering hill of Vieux-Quebec with the basilica and the chateau. He can feel the sweat rise on the back of his neck just from looking, but he doesn’t stop - on a night as cold as this, the exhaustion and the added warmth are welcome. The added warmth of a memory that never fails to make him smile, that finally manages to soften the anger inside him to something more like longing. 

He crosses the street, ploughs through the almost thigh-high pile of dirty snow that separates the sidewalk from the lane, and even though he uses the small path from another late-night stroller he ends up with snow plastered on his calves and thighs. 

When he passes the old portal he is more than glad to find the stairs not closed, but as cleared from snow as possible with this weather and the fact that it is Christmas. There is a small trail on the right side of the wooden steps where the snow isn’t as high and where he can grasp the railing. It’s only when he has reached the third landing that he realizes that it’s possible (highly unlikely) that Jon’s already gotten home, that he took a car and missed him, while he chose the shortcut via Casse Cou and now the stairs instead of the long way around the Museum. 

But then he dismisses the thought; he knows Jon, knows how much he would love the little walk after being inside for such a long time; enjoying the howl of the wind instead the muttering of people, the cold on his cheeks instead of the stale heat in the huge ballroom. He would definitely use the same way as Patrick. There is no way that he missed him. 

Nevertheless he checks his phone to find messages from Erica, Kitty and David—the latter both with photos from places he would much rather be right now. Warm places, with sunshine, sand and fruity cocktails and most importantly no snow at all. 

With a grim smile he puts the phone back and finally climbs the last flight of wooden stairs to the plateau. If the wind was strong down in the winding streets of Petit-Champlain, protected by row houses and other old photogenic buildings, it’s at least ten times worse here on the plateau, where nothing stops the force of the storm blowing in his face. There is barely time enough to grasp the fur-brimmed hood before it’s ripped from his head, almost taking the beanie with it, to tug the scarf over his mouth and fight the zipper up the last remaining inches until he really feels like he’s suffocating. But it’s still better than the biting cold.

It is only about one hundred meters but it feels like a mile (and it probably takes him a mile’s worth of time) until he reaches the welcoming orange archway, the alluring but misleading safety of the underpass to the courtyard that may provide some shelter from the wind but not from the freezing temperature. Luxurious black cars as well as less pricey taxis line up in front of the entrance to pick up their clients, blocking the driveway of the hotel. Clients that line up on the front steps, fighting with their coats and hats just like he did fifteen minutes before, while patient doormen offer to help frail old ladies down the steps or into cars. It feels like a scene from a classic movie, very Tolstoy, very fitting for the beautiful building around him that never ceases to intimidate him. 

A scene that also never ceases to amuse him when he notices all the unfitting details: the white-red arctic disk on the sleeves of the men’s coats, the bulkiness of ugly UGG boots peeking out from underneath the hems of expensive dresses, the blueish gleam of mobile screens instead of old-fashioned lighters.

It’s so surreal. He can’t help the smile, the warmth that calms his heart when he realizes that he has missed this sight. 

It’s so surreal. Almost as much as the porter greeting him with an astonished expression, before he hurries to open the door for him. 

Patrick doesn’t belong here; everything around him screams it into his face. And still...it feels so welcoming, so homey, so _right_ for him to be here. Where time seems to have stopped decades ago and somehow still moved on to the 21st century. Where everything is expensive, so elegant and everybody acts so unpretentious, so normal. Where distinguished gentlemen in black tuxedos pull rubber boots over their Oxfords before they hand canvas totes with winter boots to their ladies and help them into their calf-length parkas. Where almost no one leaves without patting Daphne’s soft black head or ruffling the curls behind her ears while she barely opens her eyes. 

So maybe Patrick fits in, even when it doesn’t feel like it, while he peels himself out of the parka and takes off the beanie. His shoes are dripping onto the floral carpet, his pants are starting to soak as the snow melts in the toasty heat. He’s not wearing his thin sweats like this afternoon, exchanged them for thicker and nicer dark jeans, but still the skin of his thighs starts to prickle and throb from the sudden warmth and he imagines how his cells widen and the blood rushes faster through his veins. 

Combing his fingers through his hair in an attempt to look more decent, he steps over to the reception desk. 

“Good evening, Mr. Kane.” The young woman sounds surprised. Probably as surprised as he always feels when he’s confronted with the fact that everyone here seems to know him. He studies her for two seconds, trying to find a name to the sleek brunette ponytail, the dark blue glasses and the prominent but charming mole over her right eyebrow. “How are you?”

“Hello, Sandrine. I’m good, thanks. Can you not... please call me Patrick, okay?” 

(He hates it. It makes him feel rich and posh - something he’s still not used to and hopefully never will be.)

“How was the evening? Seems like everyone is leaving.”

“Yes, I think they’re wrapping things up in the ballroom; most of the guests are already gone. You’re looking for Jon?” 

(Especially since everyone, even the chambermaids, call Jon by his first name. And he pays their rent.)

“Yeah, is he...still downstairs?” 

Her face is a neutral mask of politeness, but for half a second he thinks he sees something like confusion. Or surprise. Or deprecation. Patrick can’t place it and if he didn’t know for sure that Jon never ever crosses the line between employer and employee he would have thought...There is a reason why Patrick can recall her name when he doesn’t even bother to try and remember the names of most of the people who work here. 

“He should be. You want me to call him?” 

“That would be nice.” He smiles. Very wide, very cheerful. Very fake. Although she probably can’t tell. There’s a sweet satisfaction inside him while he watches her putting on the little headset again and dialing Jon’s work phone. Yeah, he hates feeling posh and rich, but he is also a little asshole—especially when he’s confronted with someone who thinks he’s asking for things he has no right to. Especially when he has all the rights. 

“I can’t get him. Maybe you go down and see if you can find him? Or you can wait here...he should come upstairs soon.” 

Patrick considers the two ideas: walking into the magnificent ballroom dressed in dripping dirty snow boots or waiting here under her watchful eyes for however long it will take his boyfriend to show up and he knows he’s too annoyed, too unwilling to do that. 

“I’ll look for him. Thanks.” With a short nod he says goodbye and heads for the direction of the rotunda and the stairs. 

There are people milling around the long hallway or sitting in nooks that are richly decorated with white and gold and silver. Walking along the small but expensive boutiques and salons or window shopping for coats and shoes with labels he’d never even heard of until Jon filled his wardrobe with them, labels that still feel wrong on him, but also very pleasant and appreciated. Most of the people are already clad to face the weather, probably waiting for their cabs or just staving off the moment when they have to step into the merciless cold outside. He knows that his boots are leaving stains on the dark navy carpet, that his clothes, although quite nice, don’t really fit the occasion that called for black tie and not the casual look that he is sporting right now—not even if it’s casual by Jon’s standard and really fancy by his own. 

The railings of the stairs are nicely wrapped with thousands of tiny lights, illuminating and leading the way to the huge ballroom downstairs, and through the open doors he can hear the soft sounds of a grand piano, mumbling a jazzy variation of a familiar Christmas song. The chandeliers are already dimmed to a cozy semi darkness and waiters have started to clean up glasses and candelabras and flower arrangements. 

He checks his watch; although it's past one a.m. there are still many guests, sitting in pairs or gathered around the bar, holding onto half-empty drinks and chatting idly or staring at him curiously when he steps into the room. 

He stands out, but he’s never had problems with that before. Still remembers the feeling of being on center stage; the eyes of hundreds of people on him. Some of them curious, some eager and excited, some judging and disapproving. Most of them adoring. ~~None of them like Jon’s~~. 

Patrick frowns for a second before giving them the same over-cheery cocky smirk he gave Sandrine earlier. 

Jon has his back to him, hasn’t spotted him yet; he’s monitoring the clearing of the huge dessert buffet together with an older gray-haired man in a white chef uniform and Patrick can easily tell that he is more relaxed than he has seen him the last weeks during their FaceTime calls: from the way he holds himself, from the lines of his shoulders. And when Jon turns slightly to gesture towards the other end of the room, Patrick notices that he has opened the knot of his tie and the topmost bottom of his shirt. Jon’s smile is soft, his forehead smooth and without the worried frown. His cheeks are flushed, maybe from the countless candles in the room, or maybe from the wine that he finally allowed himself. He looks comfortable, at ease: like he belongs here, even though his hair is slightly messed up from running his fingers through it countless times. It’s too long, curling around his ears and at his neck— because Patrick convinced him that it looks better like this, that Jon would also reap the benefits of Patrick being able to rake his hands through it. That he would definitely not regret the decision. 

And suddenly Patrick itches to do that again: to run his fingertips through the dark brown strands, to feel their smooth texture, to lean in and inhale their scent: a minty mixture of an expensive organic shampoo and skin, barely traceable, but enough to make him shiver. A wave of heat runs down his spine as his thoughts drift off, and those exact thoughts then remind him why he is here in the first place. 

That Patrick didn’t come to stare or admire his boyfriend at his workplace but instead to get him home so he can admire him there. With much less clothing on, with that nice flush spreading down over the well—toned naked chest, with Jon’s hair tickling the insides of his thighs and Jon’s tongue licking into him. 

But right now...he can maybe take one or two minutes to just stand here and ~~admire~~ watch him. Thriving on the knowledge that he’s the one taking Jon home. _Home_. 

Because seeing Jon like this is a nice sight. One that he sometimes doesn’t appreciate enough. Maybe because Jon in a suit is hardly a rare thing—on the contrary: it’s quite common, so common that he came to rather prefer the casual clothes that Jon only wears in private, the relaxed sweatpants, the cozy hoodies, the soft underwear. That he started to refer to the suits as Jon’s armor, the way Patrick wears his own (the wide sweats, the oversized hoodies, the cotton underwear). Tailored and ironed to perfection, they are close to his body, embracing shoulders, hugging chest and thighs, emphasizing his form without revealing anything. The usually white and pale-colored shirts stand out against all his golden skin, making it look smooth and tempting; the expensive black and navy cashmere jackets match the darkness of his eyes and hair. It is a nice sight, although it would be nothing more than nice if it weren’t for the way Jon wears those suits with such an ease and comfort, if he didn’t radiate confidence and superiority like no one Patrick ever saw before, no matter what he does and wears. 

Jon stands out, too. But not like Patrick, who doesn’t fit in. 

Even in these surroundings that reflect his life and upbringing so much, even with dozens of men dressed in fine clothes like him—he stands out. 

Because Patrick is looking for him. Is always looking for him; something that will never cease to surprise him. That whenever he enters a room he's looking for Jon, his eyes trail him and he feels his chest getting wider and lighter with warmth and quietness. Something that once scared him. Scared him even more because he always found Jon looking back, already staring at him, waiting for him. Longing for him. Scared him so much that in the end he pushed Jon as far away as he could, hurt and punished him so much to punish himself for needing this. 

Not anymore. 

(Patrick lived through the absence of it, the absence of Jon and he knows it's something he cannot stand again.) 

Not when he steps closer and it only takes Jon a few short moments to turn around. Not when Jon turns around as if he could feel the lingering weight of Patrick's gaze on him. When he turns around and finds that gaze, eyes never even hesitating one second before they lock onto him; very dark, very intense and so very welcome. 

It never gets old; it's always new and always breathtaking. Like fire. Like ice. Like there is no one in the room except Patrick. 

Not when Jon finishes his talk after a few more short moments and bids the other man goodbye with a little nod and then walks over to him. 

“Patrick, what are you doing here?” 

He sounds surprised—pleased, but mostly surprised and Patrick has no idea how to deal with that, how to not show the disbelief and slight annoyance and so he fails. He can see it on Jon’s small frown, the curl of his eyebrows, the falter of his smile. 

“Is—is everything okay?” 

His hand reaches out, reaches for Patrick’s upper arm, although there is hesitation; as if he rather wanted to cup his face, lift it and draw it closer so he could make really sure that Patrick was okay—and it extinguishes every flame of anger that threatened to bloom inside him. Instead it leaves him with the warm tingle that he missed so much during the last weeks. 

“That’s what I came to ask you.” He knows that he can’t take the last step to narrow and close the gap between them, but he wants to, he so wants to. Because three weeks are too long. But even though their relationship is not a secret, and Jon is anything but in the closet (various articles in magazines like _Hello_ or _OK!_ and even the fucking _Canadian Business Journal_ made sure that everyone knows about the modern Cinderella story between the multi-million hotel heir and the once-promising-dancer-now-student) and probably almost everyone still in the ballroom has already put two and two together, Patrick cannot. 

Jon would not approve it, is against open public displays of affection, especially here at his workplace. And he cannot because he doesn’t want anyone to see. It’s one thing for everyone to know, but another for them to _see_. 

“It’s almost one a.m.” He keeps his voice down. “You said you wanted to be home over two hours ago.” 

The shock on Jon’s face is real, he can see that. As real as the distress and regret while he checks his watch. 

“I didn’t...I’m sorry, it got busier than I expected. I asked Michel to text you that I would be late.” 

“Well, he probably forgot, since it was so busy.” Patrick stretches the last word, before he takes a step back—he doesn’t want to but he folds his arms in front of his chest, feeling like a child. He is still not used to Jonathan prioritizing things over him. “It’s been three weeks.” 

The step that Jon takes to bring them closer again is reassuring, comforting. It brings a wisp of that Hermes fragrance that Patrick loves so much on him; and he shivers. 

“I’m sorry.” 

There was a time - not long ago - when Patrick would have been too pissed to move on, too insulted and hurt to accept the apology. But they have come a long way and what they have is too fragile and too precious to ruin it with misplaced grudges. 

“Are you done here?” 

“Yes.”

“Then come home with me.” 

It’s just a whisper, yet it makes Jon inhale, close his eyes (as if he has to gather his thoughts and wits) and when he opens them again, they are dark; even darker than usual; and when he speaks his voice is low; even lower than usual. 

(Making Patrick’s heartbeat quicken; just as usual.)

“Yes.” 

Together they leave, Jon’s hand settling on his lower back the second they are not visible anymore to the prying eyes in the ballroom, and Patrick wishes his coat weren’t so thick or that he had taken it off instead of just opening it. He can barely feel the touch and it should not be like this. 

The rubber soles of his boots squeak quietly on the light brown tiles, making them both smile. 

“You walked here? In this storm? You should have called a car.” 

“It’s not that bad.” But then. “Okay, it was pretty windy and fucking cold, but why should I call your driver which would have taken me twice as long as the little walk here?” They’ve had this discussion so often that Patrick doesn’t bother to count anymore; it doesn’t even annoy him anymore. He stops their walk. 

“I know, it would have been more comfortable, and I know that you don’t want me to catch a cold, that you want me to be warm and safe and that you want to spoil me rotten by giving me everything, even things I don’t ask for...but I’m good. It didn’t even cross my mind that the weather was that bad—I was too pissed when it was midnight and you still weren’t home.” His pout is partly fake, partly real, but it serves its purpose: Jon’s eyes are fixed on his lips, his right hand coming up to softly brush over the bottom one. 

“So next time I don’t want you to go out in a blizzard, I better come home early?” 

“Next time better not work on the days on Christmas Eve.” 

They are alone; the hallway in front and behind them is completely deserted, so Patrick closes the gap between them (finally) and leans upwards for a kiss. A fast and deep and very hungry kiss, one that first makes Jon smile against his mouth and then answer just as urgently. It’s too soon when he pulls away again and so Patrick chases after his mouth, red from kissing, soft and tasting slightly of white wine. But there is more Jon underneath that tang and he wants all of it. 

They are gasping for breath as they end the kiss; Patrick’s heart fast and painful in his chest. He doesn’t want to let go.

Jon’s arms feel so right around body. His hands so warm and strong holding his face. 

“It’s been three weeks,” he says (because he refuses to beg Jon to touch him again). Says it in the accusing voice that he perfected because he wants to punish him, for not coming home, for not keeping his promise. It actually wasn’t one but that doesn’t change the fact that he waited two hours (that he waited three weeks). Says it because he wants to see the guilt on Jon’s face, the sadness; the regret. Says it because he needs to be where he can feel Jon’s heartbeat to drown out his own. 

It works. It always works. And like always it makes him feel like shit. 

It’s not Jon’s fault; it’s not like he wouldn’t have done anything in his power to prevent it. 

“It’s been three weeks,” he repeats—without the accusation, without anger. Just longing. 

“Almost four. Twenty-six days.” Jon whispers it, fingers in Patrick’s hair, lips against his ear, chest against his. Just five little words, but they are enough. They are the apology Jon was not supposed to make, confirmation of yearning, of a desire that cannot be fulfilled with FaceTiming and phone sex. 

But then they can hear steps behind them and it’s really time to part. It’s what they do. Only Jon doesn’t let go of him completely; he reaches for Patrick’s hand and keeps it inside his, firm and warm and safe, while they continue their walk to the rotunda and the staircase. 

“You know, I can’t promise about not working on Christmas, but I try.” 

Patrick knows. What he didn’t know in advance was how much it would bother him now. Holidays, especially Christmas and New Year, are always the most stressful and busiest days in the hotel industry. Usually Jon and David take turns; but with David’s baby being born a couple of weeks ago and Quebec’s 375th anniversary there was no way Jon could escape this duty. 

“Also you said you have to study, and your Christmas party with Kitty.” Jon nods at Sandrine and as they pass her counter on the way to the offices where he gets his wool coat and gloves. 

“Or you could at least host the party in Marrakech. I would not mind spending Christmas in Morocco where it’s warm and not fucking zero degrees.” Patrick watches him, leaning against the desk; he feels warm now—actually hot, but that will change again very soon.

“You mean minus twenty. You’re in Canada now.” 

“Whatever.” With an eye roll he fumbles for his beanie in the huge pockets of his jacket and tugs it over his wet curls. He is aware that Jon is watching him with curiosity and a fond smile. “I hope you have your snow boots with you, because if I have to walk through a blizzard to get you, you should at least have the experience, too.” 

“Of course.” It’s not clear if he refers to the boots or Patrick’s words. But then he bows down and presents his thick boots with a grand flourishing gesture. 

(Of course.) 

“God, you’re so Canadian.” 

 

—

“Shoot, it’s cold!” Jon curses after he pulled the scarf from his face to press and shakes the snow from his coat. His nice sophisticated Burberry coat that is definitely not made for Canadian winters. 

(Sometimes Patrick can’t believe him. Too polite to even swear when no one is around except for him.)

It’s hard to produce the smug expression Patrick aims for as he takes in the ice crystals on the strands of hair framing Jon’s face where his breath has frozen, the red cheeks and the melting snowflakes clinging to his eyelashes. But he manages. 

“Told you.” 

The small lobby of the apartment building is almost suffocatingly hot and they both hurry to open buttons and yank scarves away from their throats. Stomping his feet on the already wet doormat, Patrick peels the mittens from his hands, curls his stiff fingers. It’s painful and it will be even more painful in a few seconds when the blood starts to circulate again. 

“You should have given me warmer gloves, too,” he mumbles, still somehow trying to not think about how beautiful Jon looks right now. His smile wide despite the miserable conditions on their way through the old town at night. Eyes wide and dark, but bright like he hasn’t seen them in weeks. It’s not often that Patrick gets to see him like this: young and vulnerable, carefree. Relaxed. Childlike almost. The way he looks in all those pictures that decorate the walls in the Gilberts’ mansion north of Quebec and the chalet in Lake Louise. The way he looks when Patrick watches him in the grey light of a Monday morning, tangled in Patrick’s sheets, hair messy and chest bare. (Skin looking so smooth and warm that Patrick has to hold onto himself to not crawl back into bed again and press himself alongside that body, to snug his nose behind Jon’s ear and kiss that sweet spot underneath.) Or late at night when he leans against the counter watching Patrick and Kitty cleaning the kitchen, after he’s cooked dinner for them. Sleeves rolled up, tie gone, buttons undone. Reflections from the copper lampshade above the stove dying his eyes lighter, like molten caramel. (With shoulders wide and strong his presence fills the small space with so much strength and confidence that Patrick always wishes he could melt against him, feel Jon’s arms embrace him and hold him and soak up the combined feeling of _home_ and _lost_.)

“I thought you didn’t want me to spoil you.” 

Patrick should have known that this would come; he actually wanted to swallow the words the second they left his mouth. But Jon would not be Jon if he didn’t take advantage of that. He can feel himself blushing; because of his own little slip, and because Jon ‘s smile is this particular mixture between a satisfied smirk and a happy smile that he gets to see so rarely. 

(It took Patrick months to realize what it was and then he still had to lose it first to realize that it was one of his favorite things in the world.) 

“Actually, I didn’t exactly say that.” 

“You subtly hinted it.”

They are alone. The doorman is gone. Jon leans in, tugs playfully on the zipper of Patrick’s coat. Amused. 

“And like a good boyfriend I can take a hint.” 

Which means that Patrick will probably find the nicest, warmest pair of gloves on his doorstep in Chicago when he returns home after their trip to Cuba. Which also means that he wants to roll his eyes at Jon. But it doesn’t matter, because most of all he wants to kiss Jon stupid and get rid of these damn winter clothes. 

And the best way to stop Jon from grinning like a smug asshole is to say that. 

“I hope you don’t mind if we go up first. This is not prudish America but I am not sure how my neighbors will react to that. And I have to see them way more often than you.” He reaches for Patrick’s hand again. Their fingers are cold, although when he laces them together Patrick can feel the warmth underneath that cold and he squeezes softly. 

The elevator ride is short and quiet; Jon holds his hand the whole time, only releases it when Patrick has to open the door. 

 

__

Patrick does not kiss Jon stupid as soon as they enter the apartment. He can sense that Jon maybe somehow expected this, can feel it in the way he stays close to him after they shed their coats, in the way his hand lingers on Patrick’s back while he bows down to pull off his boots. His eyes stay on him when he walks away from him. 

Because on the kitchen counter is still everything set up like before. The scent of chocolate is still in the air. 

It reminds him of sitting there for almost two hours, checking his phone for messages that never came. Instead he had to read dozens of enthusiastic and joyful Christmas wishes from his sisters and friends, even one with carefully restrained words from his parents. They still haven’t really forgiven him for being gay, for choosing to live his life the way he does. For staying away during the holidays and waiting for a boyfriend who works on Christmas when he could be celebrating with loved ones. The text from them was short and didn’t say anything about that, although for Patrick it was there—between the lines but as clear as if they had written it. They may have never said it to his face, but it’s as tangible as the scent of chocolate now: bittersweet and sharp. 

Maybe it will never stop being painful. Maybe it will always make him feel insufficient. 

(Maybe that’s what they want even.)

Most of the time he can handle it. 

Today was such a day. Until he found himself staring at the four white digits announcing the passing time on his phone with growing confusion and frustration. Today it was his sisters’ texts that got him. The happy banter in their group chat during the day while they were all preparing dinner for the evening (Patrick didn’t get to prepare dinner, didn’t want to—it’s not like he could produce something comparable to Jon’s) and dressing up. The playful trash talking when they judged each others outfits (Patrick in sweatpants and one of Jon’s hoodies—it was not like he had to hurry). The sad emoticons later because Patrick could not be there with them. The even more sad comforting words when he told them that Jon was late and wasn’t answering his messages. 

He bites his lips and stares at the setting. Dimly is he aware of Jon’s footsteps coming over, too. Of his body heat when he stands behind Patrick; not touching, but almost. He almost wants to step away and he remembers the time when he would have done so. Those times have mostly passed, but on days like this they are more present than ever. So he allows the sparse contact, partly because he doesn’t want to return there ever again, partly because he is aware that Jon is hesitating. 

Together they stare at the kitchen counter: the wine glasses, the nice sparkling silverware that Patrick put out, the dozen little white bowls with fresh cut fruits arranged around the bigger one with the molten dark chocolate. It’s probably the most romantic setting he came ever up with and seeing the hardened surface of the chocolate and the brownish spots on the bananas and apples reminds him of how he waited and waited before. The feeling of loneliness and emptiness that filled his stomach with a heavy cold lump. 

“I’m sorry.” Jon leans in, whispers. His breath tickles Patrick’s neck. “If I’d known—”

“Would you have been home sooner?” 

“Probably not, because I really couldn’t leave at that point, but I’d have made sure to text you.” 

“Amazing.” He can’t really hide the sarcasm in his voice. 

“You know that I would rather have been here.” 

‘Yes.’ With a pout he finally gives in and leans back against Jon. “Still felt like a fucking housewife waiting with dinner ready for her husband to come home. You can be lucky that I didn’t already drink the champagne, too.” 

“Too?” 

“There was that open bottle of white wine in the fridge.” 

Jon’s laugh tingles all the way down his spine and Patrick shifts closer; he is still so cold and Jon is so very warm. Hands brush over his arms and around his chest; the crisp white of Jon’s shirt a nice contrast to Patrick’s navy blue. It looks sophisticated and he doesn’t regret anymore that he dressed up when he sees their reflection in the high windows. Jon wrapped around him, face tucked into the crook of his neck, following the line of his chin while his right hand sweeps lower to Patrick’s chest, inhaling deeply as if he missed the shape of Patrick’s body against his. As if he can breathe freely again. 

“My little desperate housewife.” He kisses the sensitive spot that never fails to make Patrick sigh. “Are you drunk?”

“Not anymore. Do you want me to be?” 

“Depends. If you’re more inclined to forgive me when you’re drunk, then yes.” The little kisses wander lower just like the hands. Wherever they touch Patrick’s skin seems to be on fire. They melt the cold away, the loneliness and the emptiness. 

“I’m not _mad_. I know it’s not your fault.” 

Again the laugh, hearty and real. “Liar.” 

“I’m just not in the mood anymore for the other thing that I planned.” 

“I told you, you are lying.” Another one. It drives Patrick crazy; with its obvious amusement, with its confidence of how well Jon can read him. With its promise of sex and love. “You _are_ mad.”

“Maybe a little bit,” he admits. 

“And how can I make this little bit disappear? How can I get you back into the right mood?” Teasing. So much teasing. With his hands and his mouth and his words. The low whispers make the little hairs on his neck and arms rise. Fingertips slip into the small gap between his waistband and stomach. “Should I give you my Christmas present? Will that help?” 

“It will definitely not help since we agreed on no presents. The coat was already too much.” 

They did agree. Patrick insisted. Not because he’s aware that he can never keep up with Jon’s—not that Jon would care. Not because it would make him feel guilty—it wouldn’t (Jon has more money than they both can ever spend). Because having Jon like this sometimes feels like the best present. Having Jon’s forgiveness and trust...and that is something for which Patrick can never pay him back. He never said it, never claimed this as the reason, instead used all the other false explanations that would make sense for probably everyone except them. 

If Jon knows he’s never called him on it. Maybe for the same reasons Patrick never named. 

“Then it’s good that I don’t have one. And the coat was not a Christmas present. You needed it and Christmas presents shouldn’t be needful.”

(Patrick didn’t need it. But he definitely didn’t feel guilty about taking it. Especially after he got out of the airport in this blizzard this afternoon.) 

“What did you plan? Can you at least tell me what I’m missing?” 

Although Jon’s fingers are already inside his pants, although it’s clear what his intention is, they never wander lower than one inch inside; they are just lazily caressing Patrick’s belly, drawing circles around his hipbone—still the thin layer of his shirt between them, preventing real touch. It’s annoying and reassuring at the same time. It remembers him of the time he spent here, sitting on the couch, alone, staring at the TV screen without really seeing it, excited in a way he hasn’t been in a long time, waiting for Jon to come home. 

“Why should I?”

“Because I’m asking you nicely. Because I want to know if it’s worth persuading you.” It would be tickling if Patrick were ticklish, as Jon patiently tugs on the seam of his dress shirt to get it out of the way and get to his skin. It would be tickling as Jon licks a slow gentle stripe over the spot where jaw meets neck. But it’s not and so it’s just sweet sweet torture and Patrick is so weak for it. 

For all the attention that is finally on him and that he missed so much during the last three weeks—26 days. 

“It is.” He bows his head, gives more and easier access. Brings his hands down to Jon’s wrists; the slender, strong, nice wrists that are just a slightly too wide for him to fully wrap his fingers around. The skin there is soft and the sharp inhale that is his reward is raw, needy and exactly what he wanted to hear. “Believe me, it is.”

No one ever said he’s not cruel. 

“Oh yeah? Did you plan on covering yourself in chocolate for me so that I have to lick it from your body because I would be very sorry that you’re not in the mood for that anymore.” 

“Nope.” 

“Or me? That would be even more tragic.” Jon chuckles and it is this chuckle that gets to him. The proof that this is still some game to him, that he thinks it funny that Patrick for once waited for him. That he came to get him, like a lovesick jealous school girl. The fact that Jon enjoys it even. 

“No!” he snaps, brushing the hands away and bowing out of the embrace with a quick movement, unable to stand the mocking. “I planned to dance. For you.” 

Patrick stares at Jon. Angry. Angrier than he wants to be. Angrier than he should be. Because it really was not Jon’s fault, neither the delay, nor that Michel didn’t notify him about it. Because the instant the words leave his mouth he already wants to take them back. 

Because he never wanted to say it aloud. Because he wasn’t that mad before, was madder just now about Jon’s cockiness and amusement. 

And now it’s too late. He ruined everything again. With his misplaced pride and temper. 

Now Jon looks as if he slapped him. The bright and happy light is gone from his eyes—replaced by a mixture of surprise and regret. Gone is the smile, too. His hands drop to his sides and he looks at Patrick with his eyes dark and unreadable. 

“Is that—you wanted to dance. For me?” His voice is small, dry and when Patrick nods, he swallows. Very audible in the silence that falls between them. It should have meant something. It would have meant so much for Jon...for them. But Patrick spoiled it because he used it like a spiteful child. Used it like a weapon to hurt Jon instead of the gift he intended it to be. 

He wants to cry. Hot and angry and shameful tears. Only he can’t—can’t ruin this evening more than he already has. 

“I’m sorry.” He reaches for Jon’s hand; it lies heavy and boneless in his own. “I really am, please believe me. This is not the way I wanted to tell you.” 

Yet Jon is Jon.

“It’s okay. It’s—” 

He always reacts so differently than Patrick expects him to. As if he doesn’t care about Patrick’s angered burst of words, so obviously chosen to cause pain and damage. As if that’s not important anymore. Not to him. The look in his eyes changes, becomes soft again; more questioning, more caring than before. As if he is unsure whether to believe him. 

“You’re dancing again?”

Patrick shakes his head; Jon’s hand is still in his palm. Maybe he has forgotten how to move. Maybe it’s just as unimportant as the way Patrick told him. 

“Not really, but I think I’m ready to try it again. I don’t know...I think I’ve been missing it for a while now.” He brushes his thumb over the back of that hand, still feeling the need to apologize, to be close and see Jon’s reaction. To him Jon’s emotions are always so precious; they are often carefully guarded, hidden under a layer of preparedness and politeness, under confidence and suaveness. And he understands how someone would think Jon is boring or shallow but not Patrick. Jon never is like that when he looks at Patrick. Because then something in his faces shifts, changes. It’s like Patrick awakens feelings inside of him that others cannot. It’s like Patrick awakens him to life and it makes him feel so special that he sometimes can’t breathe. Maybe he doesn’t know it, maybe he does. Maybe this is the reason he is so unwilling to display affection in public. 

Something that Patrick can’t hold against him—understands it too well. 

And as long as he gets this, he doesn’t care. 

“Is that true? You missed it?” 

“Yes.”

Because Jon’s tentative smile and the slow happiness that’s spreading over his face are more beautiful than even the youthful version of Jon he saw earlier, warm him more than the coat or even Jon’s hands around his body. It’s blinding, pure bliss. 

“And you wanted to show me?” 

“Of course.” 

Patrick can’t stand the distance between them longer; he has to step closer, even when that means that he can’t see the look on Jon’s face anymore. But his heart is beating so fast with excitement, his hands are shaking...he needs the solidness, the strength and safety to ground him. He needs Jon. Because suddenly this feels like a huge step, for both of them, and he feels vulnerable, probably more vulnerable than he ever felt on a stage, just by admitting this. 

They both know that Patrick will never dance professionally again. That that is and will always be lost for him. But Jon’s told him that there will be a day when he would be ready again, that he would stop hating ballet and music; that the love and passion would come back and that he would still be able to dance. Maybe not for an audience, maybe only for himself, for his own pleasure. He never believed him, didn’t even want to because it was too painful and he couldn’t have the hope taken away from him again the way it happened after the first series of surgeries. 

Hope is the most dangerous thing in the world. He learned that the hard way. Feeling the sharp knife of pain in his collarbone every time he moved, lifted his dance partner or jumped was like a black hole opening in his chest, sucking the life out of him. 

“You don’t have to. If you want to have it for yourself...you don’t—not now, not tomorrow, not ever.” Jon’s voice is as tense as his body and Patrick can sense that it takes a lot for him to say those words. To allow Patrick this freedom. 

They have come a long way. Both of them. 

So he shakes his head. 

“No, I want to. I wanted to, was ready. But right now I—” His face is still against Jon’s shoulder, nose pressed against Jon’s throat, his hand finally back around his body, the other in Patrick’s curls, calming him. “It feels as if I ruined everything with my reaction before. On the flight this afternoon and while I was heating up the chocolate it seemed like a good idea, but now I’m nervous. I don’t want to disappoint you again.” 

Calming him like the soft chuckle right next to his ear; gone is the provoking confidence that was there before, the security that he could charm and play Patrick’s body the way Patrick could his. Jon lifts his head from where he’s hiding, makes him look into his eyes. Makes him see the pride and the love there. 

“Patrick, it is not possible for you to ever disappoint me. You never have and you never will. If you’re doing this because you feel you have to, because you think that I want to see you dance, or because I’m not proud of what you’re doing now, then you’re so very wrong. I want you to be happy and if that means that you never dance again, then that’s fine with me. And if you decide you’re ready to start again but without me seeing it, then I will respect that, too.” Jon holds his face in his hands, thumbs gently caressing the soft skin under his eyes. He looks so sincere and honest that Patrick shivers. 

“I’m so proud that you overcame the injury, that you picked yourself up and found something new that you love and that you’re dedicated to. Even when that resulted in turning my guest bathroom into darkroom or seeing you less because of your schoolwork or sharing your affection with that old Pentax that you carry around all the time. You don’t have to dance to make me happy, okay?” 

Patrick nods. He knows that. Not only because Jon’s told him many times, or because he tries to visit every presentation and exhibition where Patrick’s showed his work or at least makes sure to call after. He knows because he can see it in his eyes, in the small smile that he keeps only for Patrick. 

“Later or tomorrow?” He bites his lips, feeling lighthearted now, jittery almost. Always felt like that, feels like that under Jon’s gaze. Like there is no one else that Jon sees, wants or loves.

Once it was too much for him; too much appreciation, too much affection. Once he was not used to that, once all these feelings were too much for Patrick and the way he started to need them terrified him. Because he soaked it up, wanted more and more, got restless and agitated when it was gone. Jon made him feel secure and special; as if he could do everything, as if he was everything. And Patrick had lost that feeling too often to rely on it, so that his addiction scared him more than anything. 

But Jon took him back, forgave him when Patrick was at his weakest, lowest. He still looked at Patrick like that and he still loved him, even though he probably shouldn’t have. And he still made him feel all the things that no one had ever evoked in him before. Feelings he needed more than dancing. 

So he bites his lower lip, aware that Jon’s eyes are fixed on them, before he smiles widely, stretches on his tiptoes, butterflies in his belly. His fingers suddenly long for the contact of Jon’s skin, want to touch him so badly that he regrets even more that he was silly enough to do anything else as soon as they stepped into their apartment, that he let himself be distracted by his earlier doubts and resentments. 

So he leans in, leans against Jon’s chest while reaching for his belt and bringing his mouth close to Jon’s ear to flick his tongue over the shell, to bite down softly while he his searching fingers finally find what they are looking for. Warm and tempting and so welcome. With growing impatience he starts to yank on the shirt Jon is wearing then, trying to get it out of the dress pants. The hitch in Jon’s breathing is almost as satisfying as the feeling of the soft skin over hard muscles. 

So he digs his fingers in—not hard enough to actually hurt, but with an eagerness that reveals the need and possessiveness that he cannot help and doesn’t want to hide. Jon’s reaction is instant. Hands that grabs him harder and tighter: one around the back of Patrick’s head, the other on his ass, pressing him closer, pressing him against Jon’s growing erection. 

“Tomorrow.” he decides, looking up oh so slowly and teasingly to extinguish the expression of disappointment that has appeared on Jon’s face; his eyelashes low and lazy as he sweeps his tongue over his bottom lip just to see Jon’s gaze darken, to feel his grip grow even more firm, more insistent.  
Patrick loves this, loves that he can do that to him, that his body is ~~still~~ able to draw this reaction from Jon, that his presence or his words are sometimes enough to cause this.

“Tomorrow, because tonight I need you to fuck me stupid.” 

Jon’s audible inhale is drowned by the loud clang when his heavy belt buckle lands on the floor, followed by the softer rustle of expensive fabric. Without hesitation, without looking down, Patrick moves on to work on the small buttons of Jon’s shirt, opening them with confident and nimble fingers, making sure to brush over every new inch of skin that he uncovers. His heartbeat should not accelerate—it’s nothing new; it’s so familiar. But it’s still so arousing and Patrick doubts that it will ever stop. 

_Hopes that it will never stop_. 

“As you wish.” 

Patrick shivers; he’s still completely clothed, but those words are enough. Everything he wants. Everything he needs. His fingers are shaking and he doesn’t even bother to hide it as he brushes the shirt from Jon’s shoulders, before finally kissinglickingbiting his way over Jon’s chest. He should not smell so good, taste so good. 

It’s addictive. _Just like everything else about him_.

“God, I missed this,” he breathes. “I missed your smell, I missed your taste, I missed your warmth.”

Jon’s hands are both now on his ass, squeezing it, fingers wandering over the cleft between his cheeks, and Patrick inwardly curses his jeans. But he’s too busy to do anything about them apart from increasing his movements, rubbing his cock against Jon’s with more vigor, waiting for him to finally start to undress him too. He’s too busy getting rid of Jon’s underwear, eager to have him naked. The way he wanted him to be since leaving the airplane, since seeing him in the hotel’s ballroom. (Tall, strong and so good looking it took his breath away.)

 _The way he always should be_. 

“Please tell me that you don’t have to be at the hotel tomorrow.” He flicks his tongue against a nipple, watches with fascination as goosebumps start to appear on Jon’s naked chest before he looks up, searches for Jon’s eyes only to find them already fixed on him: the way he wants them. 

_The way they always should be_. 

“I should probably go and check—” 

Patrick bites down, sharp and punishing and just on the far side of too hard. Jon’s hiss is satisfying and Patrick can’t even bring himself to feel any regret—not when his teeth marks stand out white against the reddened flesh, when he can still taste Jon’s skin on this tongue. He looks up again; there is no need to fake the sulkiness he’s feeling. This is not what he wants to hear. 

“But I guess I can just call Ann or Michel to see how they’re getting along.” 

“That’s way better.” He kisses an apology over the hurt spot; it’s hot and throbbing against his lips and for a second he almost feels guilty about the bite. Almost. Because he is _still_ completely dressed, _still_ not skin on skin and Jon just threatened to leave him again tomorrow. 

“It’s been three weeks.” As if this explains everything. He doesn’t want to sound like a child. He wants to ask if Jon doesn’t want to undress him, too. He wants to ask if Jon didn’t miss him, too.

“Twenty-six days.” 

As if this explains everything. 

And it does. 

Patrick swallows. When Jon’s hands release his ass and instead close around his face. Suddenly he feels so small and vulnerable even though he is the one who is still completely dressed while Jon is naked in front of him and it should be the other way around. Suddenly he feels so lost, so lost and found at the same time. Because he has never loved like this and it never ceases to surprise him. But Jon’s hands are around his face and he looks into his eyes and nothing else is important. 

“I missed you, too, Patrick. I miss you whenever you’re not with me.” 

Patrick closes his eyes, pushing himself more against Jon, ~~needing~~ seeking his body heat. He wants Jon’s arms around his body, his arms around him, his hands on his shoulder blades, on his lower back, around his waist. He wants Jon’s wrapped all around him and everywhere.

“I love you, too, Patrick.”

Patrick’s breathing stops when he feels the first kiss on his eyelid. Soft, so soft. 

(A stark contrast to Jon’s erection that is still pressing against his own.) 

“I love you, whenever you are not with me.” 

Patrick’s breathing starts up again when he feels the second kiss on the other eyelid. Soft, so soft.

He opens his eyes. Finds Jon’s. Already fixed on his face. As if he never left. As if it hasn’t been 26 days. Finds Jon’s eyes, dark and so warm. As always. And he used to be so scared of that, of the fact that they were always on him, that he needed them on him—he knows that, still remembers that. But all the fear is gone. Is gone for a long time now

They have come a long way. 

When he whispers this against Jon’s mouth, he can feel him smile, can feel the tiny scar on Jon’s upper lip and he has to kiss it. Slow and thoroughly. Licking into Jon’s mouth, tasting him, touching him because he is here. Touching him because he still can’t say the words as often, as freely as Jon, because he still relies on his body to say to them. Because his body is able to express his feelings better than his words can. 

When he has to lean back, when his lungs are about to burst from the lack of oxygen, Jon is still smiling, his hands are still around his face. Because he doesn’t need to hear the words anymore, because he can read Patrick’s body better than anyone else, could even when Patrick was unable to. 

“ _Please_...” he starts. And stops. There is nothing Jon would deny him. He could ask for everything. It’s alleviating. And amusing. Because he only wants one thing. 

“Get me naked.” 

“As you wish.” A smile. Because Jon knows. Because he does as he is told. There is nothing sexy about it, no playing, no caressing: his fingers starting to work on Patrick’s shirt, swift and effective (so used to unbuttoning dress shirts), hesitating only a short, teasing moment to frown at Patrick’s jeans before opening them just as quickly and brushing them down together with the boxers. It is not cold in their apartment but he can’t help the slight flinch when Jon makes him lift his arms to take off his tank top. 

“Hold me.”

“As you wish.” A laugh. Because Patrick knows. Because Jon does as he is told. Surrounds him instantly with his body; strong and hot, smelling of dark wood and sex. His arms around Patrick’s back, his hands on his ass. bringing him closer, lifting him onto the kitchen island so that they can be even closer. With Patrick’s arms around his neck, with thighs around his waist. Arousing and amazing. He leans back, fingers buried in Jon’s shoulders to drag him down, drag him over himself, to feel his weight on top of him, pressing him down. Breathtaking and beautiful. 

Once his own need would have made him feel cornered, threatened. But now he just spread his legs wider, begs Jon without words. Dizzy with want and bliss. Sucking kisses onto his collarbone, pulling him closer to encourage him to cover him in bruises, Jon’s cock brushing against his hole, wet and wicked. 

“What else?” His voice is hoarse, deep, eager. And also so amused, so pleased. His eyes skim over Patrick, laid out for him, a dessert better than the chocolate fondue on the other side of the counter. Trailing over his chest, over his perked nipples, over the scar that’s still too prominent, still an ugly-white reminder that is sometimes painful to look at but sometimes the proof that everything is better now, that Jon has forgiven him, that he is Jon’s now in a way he wasn’t before. And then he leans down, traces the frayed lines with his nose first, with his lips and his tongue after: with so much care and love that Patrick has to swallow, that Patrick’s mouth goes dry and his heart clenches in his chest because today it’s the latter and he will never get over this feeling: the same feeling he had on that grey day at the beginning of October when he gave Jon his answer and left his suite in Toronto. The feeling he had when he walked down the hallway to the elevators, too numb to hear the door opening behind him, the footsteps coming after him, too broken to feel the arms coming around him, stop him and embrace him, too lost to hear the words Jon whispered in his ears until he found himself leaning against the wall, Jon’s body protectively wrapped around him. 

But it’s just a long second and when he shudders and blinks and opens his eyes, Jon’s face is just inches from Patrick’s, his breath brushing over Patrick’s mouth, unaware of these thoughts, only thinking about Patrick’s needs and it’s not hard to return to this reality that is the result of that memory but so much better. 

“What else?” Jon repeats for him, hands around his face, turning it sideways to have easier access to his throat, to the tender spot of skin where he loves to leave bruises, where Patrick loves to find them in the mirror the morning after, reddish and purple, low enough to be hidden underneath his collar but high enough for him to discover them easily whenever he wants to see them; a throbbing memory of the fact that he is Jon’s and he has something else now in his life that makes him happy. 

He blinks again, tightens his legs and arms around Jon’s body; fingers digging deep into the strong back muscles, heels guiding the lean hips closer. (The way Jon’s gaze gets even darker, his body tenses visibly and the small flush of hot precum that trickles down Patrick’s taint because of his possessive motion is mind blowing.) 

“What else do you want me to do?”

It’s a game. Because they both love to win. Because now they know that they both can win. 

“Fuck...me. Fuck me.” He doesn’t need to, but he can’t resist. He doesn’t need to, but he bats his eyelashes. He doesn’t need to, but he adds: “Please.” 

Because he loves how Jon’s low rumble echoes through his chest, a sound that is pure instinct, wild and wanting. Loves how Jon grabs his leg and bends it even further, brow furrowed with determination and care. 

Because he loves how they both win like this. 

“As you wish.” 

 

___

The end. 

 

In case you’re interested there’s a [ **tag** ](http://miss-malheur.tumblr.com/tagged/story%3A-soiled-hands) on my tumblr, with pictures, poetry and music that inspired or reminded me of this verse.


End file.
